My mother loves fresh starts.

New sheets with bright floral patterns that make me dizzy and nauseated are a fresh start. “Look at these!” she exclaims as the sheets billow out over my bed, “Don’t they make you think of spring?”

Actually, they make me think of funeral flowers, but for once I am wise and hold my thoughts inside. Sometimes I can do this, even when they fester and bubble in my gut until I feel pain in my abdomen. Pain is good. It makes me feel a little more alive than I usually do. I tried to explain that once to my mother, when she was moderately sober, to which she replied, “What sixteen-year old needs pain? Get outside and get fresh air Joline.” Fresh air, fresh starts, fresh drinks. Everything is fresh to my mother.

Fresh starts also include haircuts, for some reason. Mom drags me out of funeral flowers insisting all I need is “a haircut! That’s what will give you a fresh start!” and she is enthusiastically throwing clothes at me, muttering how this colour goes with this skirt. I think it’s perfectly acceptable to go out in my pajamas.